


Healing Wind

by Ardwynna



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7305484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardwynna/pseuds/Ardwynna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feelings have no place in Turk matters. He did his job. Now Tseng must live with his regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an image by @thisismyfinalheaven on Tumblr: http://thisismyfinalheaven.tumblr.com/post/146434499733/letting-her-go-was-the-start-of-my-bad-luck

He passes by her church several times the first year. He does not go in. There’s nothing to see there anymore, and besides there’s rubble blocking the door.

He thinks of her when he sees flowers, but then he always did. Flowers were rare in Midgar and she was a daily task in his life for so long. Well, not so long, really, but years all the same.

When the excitement has passed and the waters have calmed, and the world has begun its healing, he thinks about going in for a look. The broken stone and marble have been cleared away, and there are visitors now and then, giving thanks. He could blend in. He does not go in.

Several times he buys a flower, not her fresh white or yellow, but something different. A little variety, perhaps? She might have liked that. But he stands at the door, staring at splintered wood, and does not go in.

The pink carnation he leaves on a flat tableau of broken stone, laying it like an offering on an alter outside the door. A handful of violet-blue hyacinths he lays on a windowsill.

One day he stands outside with a red rose in his hand. The door, age-darkened wood, is the slightest bit ajar. Wind howls overhead and through the shattered roof, through the torn ceiling of the whole church freed to the open sky. The door, heavy as it is, sways slightly in the breeze. Sunlight shines behind that oaken shadow even though the air is cold.

The wind threatens the tender petals of the rose, more fragile than they appear. It whips through the hair he has forgotten to trim in all these years. Almost as long as hers was, he thinks, wondering if she had felt it whip around her like this before she…

There’s a sound in the breeze, like light laughter. He bends low, hair touching earth, and sets the rose down just inside the door.

He never goes in.


End file.
